


Badge No. 16596

by greerwatson



Category: Forever Knight
Genre: Backstory, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:20:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21834325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greerwatson/pseuds/greerwatson
Relationships: Nicholas Knight/Natalie Lambert
Comments: 20
Kudos: 22
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Badge No. 16596

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chamilet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamilet/gifts).



_“Solving a puzzle is its own reward for me.”_ Wryly, Dr. Lambert remembered her words. She had meant them at the time. Well, up to a point: Mr. Knight’s vampire state was indeed a fascinating puzzle, quite apart from the challenge of finding a cure. Nevertheless, even then, she had known that she was lying through her teeth; and the weeks since he had come back to life on her autopsy table had only confirmed her mendacity. He was a damned good-looking man, and a charmer to boot.

And nothing to do with that hypnotic snake-charming power of his, either—which, mercifully, had no effect on her. If she was going to be fascinated, let it be honestly. (And, honestly? She was.)

He was due at eight. At the Coroners Building: she didn’t feel she knew him well enough to let him over to her apartment, quite apart from the fact that the equipment needed to examine him was, obviously, in her office. Over the course of previous appointments, she’d been astounded by his blood pressure and shocked by his heart rate. She was still trying to talk him into tissue samples; but his understanding of medicine was antiquated, and his knowledge of biology bordering on the medieval. As for taking a proper patient history! He was private to the point of paranoia when it came to talking about his past.

The report she had been working on she saved at a quarter to eight, more or less. She then turned off the computer, and took from the drawer of her desk—the drawer she now always kept locked when she was off shift—a bound notebook, rather too expensive (in her opinion) yet, in its formality, curiously appropriate for the task of recording information about a man with a long … a _very_ long … history. History being, she suspected, the best word. Not that Dr. Lambert yet knew just how many years Mr. Knight had lived. As her patient, he was reticent about that, as about so much else. Occasionally, though, he had let drop a comment or two that suggested he was much older than he looked, to a degree that could not be explained by good genes or cunning plastic surgery. Decades older, at least. One or two comments, if read between the lines, suggested more. Even centuries perhaps. Yes, centuries. Plural.

At five to eight she checked her watch and then glanced up at the clock, which showed no more than a minute’s difference in the time. She fiddled with her pen; and then opened the notebook, reread the previous session’s notes, flipped to a fresh page, and filled in the date and header. This occupied her long enough that she missed the knock at the door, if there was one. Instead, she looked up at a sudden brisk gust to find her research subject leaning against the autopsy table with a broad smile on his face.

“You seem busy,” he observed. “Am I early?”

“No, no, you’re right on time.” Glancing up once again at the clock, she saw that this was true.

There followed what, by now, had become a routine series of tests and observations, duly entered in the notebook.

“You keep that under lock and key?” said Mr. Knight with a nervous frown. It was not for the first time. She reassured him yet again.

“Do you really need to do this every visit?” was his next (and by now all too familiar) question; and once more she explained the need for longitudinal observations. “A time series,” she said, “so that I have basal figures for comparison as the treatment progresses.” 

“It’s just that I was hoping for some new developments,” he replied, in a slightly plaintive tone. He then slid off the autopsy table, put on his shirt, and began buttoning it up. “Have you still no idea for a treatment? A cure?”

“As I told you,” she said, “these things take time. I _can_ suggest—” He looked at her hopefully. “—that you try to modify your diet. I don’t know if being a … a ‘sanguivore’? Is that a word?”

He shrugged, with a sheepish smile. Latin was never part of a knight’s training. “I just say ‘vampire’,” he admitted, and picked his coat up from the back of the chair at the lab desk.

“Well, I don’t know if diet is relevant; but I do know that, if we get you mortal again, you’ll be eating normal food. Not a bad idea to get in practice.” She smiled to take away any sting in her words. As he slipped lithely into his coat, she went round behind her desk, opened the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, and took out a small plastic bottle. “Here, why don’t you try this?”

He took it gingerly from her outstretched hand.

“It’s only a commercial preparation,” she said apologetically. “Well, I suppose you can see that from the packaging. But it contains a full meal’s complement of protein, vitamins, and minerals. All the dietary requirements, in fact. Basically—”

“You’re putting me on the SlimFast Plan?” he said, with an odd look on his face. The label on the bottle was clear enough; and, though he might not be quite as _au fait_ with modern culture as his doctor thought he should be, he did occasionally notice an advertisement.

“Oh, you don’t need to lose weight!” said Dr. Lambert hastily. “You’re ideal, in that regard.” (And so many others, she thought, forcing her eyes back up to face level.) ”No, I’m assuming you’ll supplement the supplement with your usual … beverage. After all, a sudden _complete_ switch to a new diet would probably discombobulate your digestion; and we don’t want that.”

His mouth twisted wryly. It had been quite a few centuries since he’d last suffered belly-gripes.

“However,” she went on, “try to replace at least part of the blood you drink with a bottle or two of this every day. You need to get your system—not to mention your taste buds—used to real, human food.”

“ _Real_ food?” he said quizzically. He hefted the bottle in his hand, and brought it close enough to read the fine print. “It could hardly be more artificial than this stuff.”

“I’ll try to come up with improvements,” she said sharply, “once I have a better idea of your exact dietary requirements. I’ve only been researching your condition for a few weeks, you know. You’ll just have to make do with this for now.”

He nodded doubtfully, and slid the bottle into the capacious pocket of his coat.

“Now about your next appointment—”

He brightened. “Oh, I think I’ve solved your problem!” At her look of query, he continued, “You know you said you were concerned your colleagues might have questions about my being here so often? That’s something I can usually deal with; but I think I’ve come up with an even better answer.” He beamed broadly. “I shan’t tell you now. It’s still in process. But, if I’m right, I’ll tell you next week.”

But in fact it was only a couple of days later. 

On Thursday, just as she was heading out to a new body, two of the detectives from the 27th dropped in wanting a routine follow-up on the autopsy of what had, in the event, proved to be a case of death by natural causes. Tagging behind them was a familiar face.

Ruthlessly, she suppressed her surprise. (At least he was savvy enough not to greet her by name.) “This is Knight. New guy,” was all the introduction she got. Hastily, she shoved the path. report at them and left them leafing through it. Questions would have to wait until she got “Detective Knight” alone. How on earth had he done it…?

“…so fast!” she said at their next session. “I _know_ I said it would be a good idea for you to get involved in some activity that would put you in regular contact with normal humans leading a normal life; but I also know a fair bit about the process of becoming a police officer, let alone a detective. There’s paperwork. And training. And promotion. And no one—but _no one_ —goes straight into Homicide!”

“Oh, I’ve been a cop before,” said Detective Knight easily. “Not here in Toronto. In Chicago, actually. Years ago; but I’m sure things won’t be that different.”

“But…!” she protested.

“Don’t worry about it.” He smiled—that sweet smile that always went straight to her knees.

Had he used that hypnotic power of his? Probably, she thought. He _was_ going to have to learn—or relearn—human behaviour and stop using his vampire abilities. If he truly wanted to pass, anyway. But that was an argument for another day.

“Make friends,” was all she said. “With your fellow officers, I mean. Go bowling with them, or whatever. The more you know people in Toronto, the more you act the same way everyone else does, the easier all this will be.” After a moment’s thought, she added encouragingly, “You’ve big changes in your future.”

“Oh, I do know someone here in Toronto already,” he said. Then he hesitated. “A … a relative you might say.”

Another vampire, she supposed. (Well, it was a fair guess.)

“Though I’ve not actually got in touch with her—”

 _Her?_ For a moment, all veneer of “Dr. Lambert” vanished in a spasm of jealousy; then she tamped it down. He was her patient, her research subject: she had to be professional.

“—she’s actually been here a long while. At any rate, I haven’t sensed her move on.” Knight gave her an odd look. “Is something wrong, Doctor?”

“No, no.” She waved it off.

“Well, I suppose she’s still here. I could look her up; but—frankly?—I’ve been trying to avoid the Community as much as possible.”

Community? ( _Another_ question for another day.)

Detective Knight reached into his jacket and proudly flashed his badge. “See?” he said. “It’s quite genuine.”

Before he could put it away, she leaned forward to take a close look. The big brass badge certainly looked right; and it was paired with an ID card with his picture on it. “Badge number 16596,” she read. Yes, the 27th Precinct, right enough; and the right address, too, on Curity Avenue.

“You’re thirty-one?!”

“Well,” he said (once again with that shy, sheepish, charming smile), “in this incarnation, anyway. I had to provide something plausible, you know.”

Another clue about his real antiquity, she thought.

He closed the wallet and slipped it back in his pocket. “I’ve arranged to work exclusively on the night shift,” he said. “Medical reasons.”

Which was true enough. “What about the physical?” she asked. He had not asked her to fake it for him; and she would not have been authorized to provide an official one, anyway,

He just smiled more broadly. (As a means of evading her questions, it was actually starting to get a little irritating, however handsome he was.)

“Ask me no questions?” she sighed. “Fine. For now. In time, though, you are going to have to open up a bit. You know what they say—there are two people you have to tell the truth to, your doctor and your lawyer.”

He looked at her sharply, hesitated, and then said quietly, “Maybe when I know you better.”

She gave him a level look back, and then a nod. Yes, caution was not out of order. It was not that long, after all, since he’d miraculously come back to life in a body bag. Perhaps his new career as homicide detective was not such a bad idea. In that role, he would have to come often to the Coroners Building; they would see each other regularly in the line of work; none would question his presence in her office, in or out of hours; and their growing acquaintance would be accepted by all.

There would, she thought, be a lot of “Badge No. 16596” in her future. And that would be intriguing, wouldn't it? In so many ways.


End file.
